


Somewhere Only We Know

by hellokarma (pandapop)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Exes, Flashbacks, Getting Back Together, How Do I Tag, M/M, Rating May Change, Sort Of, boys are hurt and trying their best, but it ends happy promise, but more angst the rest are for later, like a lot of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24738277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandapop/pseuds/hellokarma
Summary: He’d expected a great punishment—to be hit with an overwhelming feeling that just screamslook how you fucked upand feel that sensation wash him from the tips of his hair down to the soles of his feet, entering his lungs, drowning him in it completely.And, well, that’s exactly what happens. He deserves it. In fact he deserves much, much worse. But he wouldn’t be the selfish bastard he was if his first instinct wasn’t to try to make it hurt less.Or;Aziraphale's past catches up to him, and so do the consequences.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	Somewhere Only We Know

**Author's Note:**

> The scenes alternate between the past and the present. Just want to clear that out now.
> 
> Welcome to Self-Indulgence: The Fic. I really have nothing to say other than I started this fic with the intention of writing innocent childhood meet-cute and somehow ended up morphing it into a big dump of angst and hurt/comfort. Oops. Sorry, I am physically incapable of creating anything that doesn't make me question my life choices. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

_Oh._

It’s funny.

After twenty years, he’d imagined his first thought upon seeing him would be a something a tad bit more dramatic. Not that he’d tried imagining what it’d be like. The complete opposite really, but it’s hard not to expect it. He’d expected a great punishment—to be hit with an overwhelming feeling that just screams _look how you fucked up_ and feel that sensation wash him from the tips of his hair down to the soles of his feet, entering his lungs, drowning him in it completely.

And, well, that’s exactly what happens. He deserves it. In fact he deserves much, much worse. But he wouldn’t be the selfish bastard he was if his first instinct wasn’t to try to make it hurt less.

 _Oh, he cut his hair short_ was a safe cut.

At least, it’s better than _Oh, he still looks every bit the man I’ve fallen in love with all those years ago, and now he’s here, in London, holding hands with someone else_.

No, he doesn’t think that. At least not until he’s walked away, as calmly as he could, safely hidden in the hustle and bustle of Soho's evening streets, and finally has his back against the doors of his bookshop and there’s nobody but him and his books and his increasingly heaving breaths and the quiet life he’s made for himself sitting in the darkness in front of him.

_Oh, he’s happier now._

He laughs softly. There was no greater punishment than this.

-*-

It’s raining.

Aziraphale frowns up at the sky, clutching his bag full of books close to his chest. He has never seen rain before, because it doesn’t rain in Tadfield. That’s what his parents and teachers told him. But he’s read all about rain—it’s strong and cold and very _wet_ , and when _books_ get wet he can’t read them anymore, and he doesn’t like that, so he was happy that rain didn’t happen in Tadfield. But it’s raining now, and he can’t go home. His bike won’t save his books from getting wet at all too.

Does rain even stop? Will it rain forever?

“Oh dear...” Aziraphale fusses with the strings of his book bag. His father has a car, but he doesn’t know he’s in the Library right now. He’ll probably be mad at him for skipping mass again. And losing his coat, though he didn’t really lose it as much as—

“Aziraphale, what are you still doing out here?” Ms. Dana, his favourite librarian of all time and forever, asks as she pokes her head out the door, looking to Aziraphale only then to notice, “Oh wow. Rain.”

Aziraphale nods, hugging his bag tighter. “It’s my first rain.”

“Guess so. Hasn’t rained round here since forever.”

“Have you seen many rains Ms. Dana?”

“I’m from London kid. Grew up with rain.” She steps out and joins him out on the porch of the Library, standing next to him as they both watch the drops fall. She looks soft in her coat jacket and bowtie with the nice pattern(“Tartan, kid. It’s called tartan.”), it’ll probably feel nicer than Aziraphale’s tacky hand-me-down sweaters and shorts his father insists he wears. “Ah...couldn’t have imagined being this surprised to see it. I’ve been here too long.”

“Ten years?”

“Eleven. You weren’t born yet.” Aziraphale looks up at her in wonder.

“You’re so old.”

“Hey now, you don’t tell a lady they’re old unless you want a kick in the bollocks alright?” Ms. Dana stiffens, “Uh, don’t ask me what that word means.”

Aziraphale doesn’t tell her that he’s heard her swear it at least once every time he visits. “Okay.”

“Anyway, we should head back inside. Don’t want to catch a cold now, do we?”

Worrying about his books(and how they are ones his parents most definitely won’t like him reading so he has to sneak them into his room before they get home), Aziraphale asks “Can you drive me home?” And, much quieter, “And not tell Dad I was here?”

“You skipped mass, didn’t you?” He nods, shifting under her stare. She sighs. “Alright, let me get my keys real quick. Where’s your coat?”

Aziraphale doesn’t look up at her.

“...again? you know what, forget I asked. That’s your problem now. Here, have mine—those shorts aren’t doing you any favors.” She takes it off and puts it on him before heading back in. He gives it a second, then snuggles into the warmth of it(he’s definitely getting one when he’s older).

He hums, watching the puddles on the front lawn grown bigger and thinks of jumping in them when he sees something shift against the trees on the other side of the street.

Out of nowhere, a kid stomps out onto the gravel road, and trips on his face.

Aziraphale looks up in alarm.

“Are you alright?!” He shouts over the rain, but the kid doesn’t seem to hear him. They just lay there, in the middle of the road. Under the rain! And they’re not moving at all! He shouts again, but they don’t answer him.

He whimpers and looks down at his bag of books and the coat on his shoulders. The pressure to do something wins. “Oh bugge—I’m sorry Ms. Dana!” Aziraphale drops his bag on the porch and, pulling the coat over his head, runs out into the rain with the dirt scrunching under his feet and oh dear he’s going to get in so much trouble later—

He reaches the kid—a boy—and kneels down next to him, holding up the coat with one hand over them while the other shakes his shoulder. The wind is picking up around them now, the rear end of the coat flipping around behind him and making his hair stick to his face. “Hey there, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t say anything back, but he’s breathing. Actually, now that he’s closer, he can hear him crying softly, the shoulder he just shook still shaking without him touching it. The sound makes Aziraphale’s chest tighten. “Oh no, you _are_ hurt.”

“...am not.”

“You are!”

“I’m not! Go away!”

Aziraphale can feel his back getting wet, pulling the coat over the boy more than himself despite their shouting. “I...I can help you. Please stop crying.” _I’ll cry too_ , he doesn’t say. He knows what people say about boys crying, and him crying in general. He reaches out to tuck away the hair covering their face. “Please.”

His red hair is nearly black now, wet with the water starting to drip through the coat. The boy doesn’t open his eyes, holding a hand up to them as he continues to sob softly. At a loss for any more to do, Aziraphale grabs at it.

“Is the rain making you sad?” He asks after thinking a bit, because he also read that rain makes people remember sad things.

“... not sad.”

He ignores him. “It-it won’t rain forever,” Aziraphale doesn’t know this, but he finds that he believes it. “And when it stops, I’ll—I will help you be happy again so—please...please stop crying.”

He doesn’t, but he does open his eyes.

Yellow, very pretty, _very yellow_ eyes look back up at him.

He doesn’t feel the rain falling harder against him that night, nor does he hear Ms. Dana calling for him to get out of it until the boy’s pushing him off him and running out of sight.

-*-

Anathema has been staring at him for the better part of an hour, and usually that’s fine. She’d never admit it, but people do fascinate her(and there’s something about these auras she keeps talking about which is strange to Aziraphale, like people’s emotions are supposedly color-coded) despite her apparent dislike for ‘the disgrace that is humanity’. She likes observing—but this, what she’s doing, is some level of scrutiny that Aziraphale’s only seen her reserve for shady-looking customers and people that are a little too close to Newt for comfort when he’s taking orders. To have it directed at him makes him shuffle his feet under the table in mild discomfort.

He gives it another minute before he carefully sets his book down and meets her eyes, “What is it, dear?”

“Something’s bothering you.”

“Can it be, perhaps, the way you’ve been watching me since I’ve entered the shop like I’ve grown wings on my back?”

She considers it, then shakes her head. “Not it.”

Aziraphale smiles kindly. “Sure it isn’t.” He tries bringing his attention back to his copy of Persuasion, of which he’s been too distracted to properly get past the first twenty pages. “Nonetheless, I’m sure it’d help to talk rather than stare. It’s a bit rude.”

“I’m not staring at you, exactly. It’s your aura.” Newt taking the seat next to her at that moment does not deter Anathema’s concentration. Aziraphale gives him a questioning look. The boy only shrugs. “It’s all...muddled. Something’s wrong.”

He flips a page. “Well, I can assure you that I’m fine.”

“I’m on to you Fell.” Anathema warns, and then finally shifts her attention to her boyfriend. Aziraphale hides his sigh of relief. “Hey babe.”

“Hi.” Newt visibly flusters at the endearment. It warms Aziraphale’s heart to know he’s somewhat responsible for bringing these two together. “Uh, it’s just—the lorry’s here. Madame Tracy thought she might have, um, a little help getting the rest of her stuff into it.”

“Oh, that’s no problem. I was just closing up anyway.” They both stand up, but not before Anathema sternly eyes Aziraphale with a finger pointed. “Stay, Fell. We’re not done here.”

“Yes we are.” Aziraphale protests weakly, but the two are already off before he can be heard. He watches them walk to the backroom of the cafe, leading up to Anathema’s flat and above that, Tracy’s. He sighs and stands up to the cafe doors, checking that there are no more customers before flipping the sign to closed.

“Anathema tells me you’ve got a grey face going on.”

Aziraphale startles as Tracy(she likes being called Madame, though Aziraphale’s taken to calling her without it) appears from behind the counter and walks to stand beside him, already clad in her travel clothes with her shiny little handmade purse tucked under her arm. He collects his bearings and chuckles. “She’s told you about my ‘muddled aura’ I see.”

Tracy assesses him. “Not as bad as she made it out to be, but I do see it.” Right, Aziraphale tends to forget that they both get on when it comes to these types of things and beliefs. “You are a little blue around the edges, though you’re trying to hide it.”

He self-consciously crosses his arms and observes the lorry. “Well, maybe I’m just sad that you’re moving away.”

“Oh shush. Tadfield’s not very far away, I can still visit whenever.” Tracy pauses to look at him, a knowing smile on her face. “Your hometown, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale hums, knowing something on his face gives him away because Tracy puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Do I have an idea why you’re so bothered today?”

She does. She’s the only one who knows. He nods once, slowly, swallowing hard.

“...I see.” And that’s that, and Aziraphale thanks the heavens that she knows not to push beyond it. Tracy looks to where he’s watching Anathema and Newt help the driver arrange her belongings(“Shouldn’t you be helping?” “They’re helping _me_.”).

“Must be a small world after all. You reckon I’d come across him when I get there?”

“...you might, if he still lives there.” Aziraphale whispers. “Tadfield’s not too big. The tallest buildings you’d find would be the Alliance and Leicester offices. It’s pretty much Luton, actually, just a lot less people and a lot more garden parties.”

“Sounds rather lovely.”

Aziraphale smiles. “It is.” He can’t hold back the soft memories flowing through his mind—walking from one end of town to the other and greeting people by their first names, his first big word ever told being velocipede because of how much he used to ride around on his bike wishing for a cooler name to call it.

A flash of long red hair and a mirthful face flying past him with a black blanket tied to their back, matching his white one, as they flew past the trees in the woods, off to where no one could find them.

“...I’m sure you’ll love it there, Tracy.”

“Of couse. If you grew up there I’m sure I’ll love it just as much as you do.”

After a while Tracy’s hand falls from his shoulder to hold his hand, and she’s quiet for a moment, the kind that Aziraphale can sense means she has something to say that he might have to brace himself for. He looks to her with concern. “Tracy?”

“...I’m getting married, Aziraphale.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale says, processing that bit of information before he’s grabbing for both her hands as the announcement sinks in. “ _Oh_! That’s—Tracy, that’s _wonderful_! You and Shadwell are—?”

“Yes! Yes, we are indeed.” Tracy tries not to let her giddiness show, but Aziraphale can see it lighting up her face, the lines of age and the years behind her only serving to make her look younger at such clear joy. He can feel himself mirroring her smile. Oh, how happy he is for her. “It’s been years since I’ve allowed myself this level of commitment, but I do love that daft old fool.”

“And when’s the big day?”

“In five months.”

Aziraphale gasps. “So quickly?”

“It won’t be very big. Just a few friends and family, plus we’ve both had our fair share of bigshot weddings and we’re too old for any of those anymore.” Tracy’s smile dims a little, becoming a tad wary. “Anyway Aziraphale, I...I want you to be there. You know you’re precious to me.”

“Of course I’d be there.” Aziraphale says, confused that she’d think he’d miss even a chance at witnessing her happiness. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We’re getting married in Tadfield, dear.”

...oh.

“That...shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I can’t force you into this, Azi.” Tracy holds his hand firmly, eyes seeing through him. “I want you to consider going, but please do go only if it’s not too much for you. I know...I know what you went through, how strong you’ll have to be. I can’t have you going just for me, no matter how much I want you to be there.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together, looking down at their clasped hands.

“...I will think about it.”

“Azi—“

“I’d be terribly depressed if I miss this, Tracy. I’ll...I’ll see if I can come. For you, _and_ for myself.” He quickly adds before she can interrupt. “I think...it’s about time I see home, anyway. Though I doubt my family misses me very much.”

“Bugger them.” Tracy huffs. Aziraphale laughs. “Pray I don’t run into them, then.”

“I will.” Anathema waves at them from outside, all boxes and furniture out of sight. Newt gives a little thumbs up beside her. Aziraphale sighs and pulls his friend into a hug. “Take care.”

Tracy pats him. “Speak for yourself, dear.”

-*-

Ms. Dana brings a soaking wet Aziraphale home to his father standing by the doorway with his angry face while Gabriel stood behind him in his dumb ‘Dad is angry at you’ face. At least Ms. Dana covers for him and tells him that she found him on the road near the library, that he crashed his bike because of the rain. It wasn’t the first time she lied to save him from his family’s wrath, and Aziraphale likes her more for it because he’s really bad at lying.

He didn’t get to keep the books though. Ms. Dana promised him he’d get them back as soon as he pays her his lunch money for ruining her coat. That’s fair, he supposes.

“You should ride more carefully next time.” His father, his angry face now turning to his calm angry face, says when Ms. Dana’s gone. “That bike was very expensive. You better hope it’s not too damaged.”

This talk would be easier to handle if Aziraphale didn’t just learn what the word ‘priority’ meant. “Yes father.”

“Good. Go get changed or you’re mopping the floors.”

Aziraphale nods, ignoring Gabriel’s judgey stare and trudges up the stairs on wet feet. His mother is already standing by the landing, and he smiles up at her worried face. “Mom.”

“Look at you.” Her warm hands cup his face, picking at his wet hair and the sweater he can now feel sticking to his skin. Ew. “Hasn’t rained here in ages. Sorry you had to meet it this way dear boy. You’re not hurt, are you?” He shakes his head. She kisses his forehead, and then pulls back with a look. “Where’s the coat I gave you?”

“Uh...” Aziraphale fiddles with the hem of his sweater. “I uh, I must have put it somewhere um, I don’t—“

He stops when he realizes she’s smiling at him with _that_ smile, like she knew what he’s done the whole time. She looks at him like that a lot. She never asks about it again after that, and he knows there’ll be a new coat hanging by his door by the next week. He hopes it’ll be one like Ms. Dana’s. “Alright. Let’s get you into the bath then.”

“Do you know other kids?”

She leads him to the bathroom and helps him out of his clothes. “What do you mean, dear? Your brother?”

“No,” Aziraphale sniffs. Gabriel’s not a kid, he’s just a big baby. “Other kids. In Tadfield.”

“I know some. At your school, for example.”

“Do you know any with red hair? And yellow eyes?”

She looks over her shoulder from where she’s setting the bath for him. “Are you sure that kid’s human?”

“Yes! And he’s very pretty!”

The water is filling up the tub now so he hops in, and the warmness of it makes his skin tingle. He didn’t know his teeth were shaking in his mouth a little until he feels himself calm down. “I don’t know, dear. Wouldn’t miss a kid like that if I saw them.” Aziraphale looks up, nearly forgetting she was there. “Why? Did you meet this boy?”

He thinks about it. “Kind of. I didn’t catch his name.” Now that he wonders about it maybe it was just his imagination. A lot of books say kids have big imaginations. Maybe Aziraphale’s imagination was just especially big today because he saw rain for the first time.

“I’m sure you saw him dear.” His mother assures him, once he says his thoughts out loud. “You just have to find him again.”

Aziraphale agrees, though he worries he might never see those pretty yellow eyes again. And he continues to do so through the next day’s class, for once not paying attention enough to disturb most of his teachers.

His worries last until lunch when there’s suddenly a fight in the cafeteria. Well, not really a fight—more a squabble(which Ms. Dana told him describes children fighting) between Harry and his brother’s stupid friend Sand-all-phone or whatever his name was. They are always picking fights with the kids under their grade, Aziraphale included, and poor Harry has never stood up to any of them before.

Until now apparently.

Aziraphale stands behind the crowd of other kids circling around the fuss, but he can see Harry from where he’s standing, rubbing his fist with a proud smile on his face. He watches as two teachers try to intervene, and Harry and Sandalpoo are dragged by their ears while Gabriel and his friends follow. Harry doesn’t stop smiling.

“That went down like a lead balloon.”

“What’s a lead balloon?” He asks absentmindedly, turning to whoever said that when his eyes widen.

Red hair. Yellow eyes.

“Uh...”

The kid looks to him, a band-aid on his cheek with his hands in his pockets, unblinking. He nods at Aziraphale. “I don’t know what a lead balloon, but my Mum says that they go down when something blows over.”

Aziraphale wasn’t listening, but he nods and looks away and tries not to feel how warm his face is. _Doesn’t he remember me?_

“He punched ‘im. Not what I wanted to happen.”

Aziraphale snaps out of his daze to look at him in horror. “You made Harry punch Sandalfoot?!”

“Sanda— _no_! I mean, I just told him he doesn’t have to take their crap and he can tell ‘em to bugger off.” Aziraphale blinks at how casually this kid can swear in school. “Didn’t say to punch him. Proud of him though.”

“That’s—that’s a bad thing!”

“Is it?” He shrugs. “He looks happy about it.”

“Just because he’s happy about it doesn’t mean it was the right thing to do.”

The kid shrugs again. Aziraphale huffs and looks away again.

“...didn’t you have a coat?”

“ _What?_ ” Oh no. How does he know about the coat? Does he know what Aziraphale did? “I don’t—“

“Lost it already have you?”

“How do—no I—um, I, I uh...” Aziraphale twists the bottom of his sweater. He has to confess now doesn’t he? “...gaveitaway.”

“You _what_?”

“I gave it _away_!” Aziraphale cries out. “I always pass the orphanage on my way home and they do like my coats a lot, and I-i just give them when they ask be-because they need it more than I do so so why not I’m—!?” He stops his tantrum when he realizes... _oh_.

“Oh, you mean the coat last night.”

The kid just stares at him. Aziraphale looks down at his shoes. He wants to run away and go home and hide under his bed forever.

“...you really are an angel, aren’t ya?”

Aziraphale blinks up at him. “Sorry?”

“Y’know, what you do. Giving your coats away and telling ‘em you’ll help them be happy again.” He says the last bit with a smile, and Aziraphale feels his face warming up again. _So he remembers that._ “You like doing good things.”

“Is—Is that a bad thing?”

“...nope.” He smiles a little wider, and Aziraphale finds that he likes seeing how it reaches his pretty eyes. “Not at all.”

-*-

Aziraphale thought he could distract himself with Wilde’s first edition of Dorian Gray, and he’s an idiot for it.

He sets the book aside and slumps over the counter, ignoring the dig of his glasses into the bridge of his nose in favour of rubbing his hands all over his face. The action, he realizes too late, brings his elbow dangerously close to the mug he’s placed right next to his cluttered notes of poems and the bookshop’s inventory, and he inwardly chastises himself for such a close call.

_“I...will think about it.”_

He shouldn’t be. The notion is non-negotiable. It’s downright _mad_ , and it’s driving Aziraphale in circles and in desperate need of distraction.

Tracy knows that she’s asking way too much of him, and she’s rightfully apologized for it, but she also knows that he knows how much she means to him, and that he wouldn’t just take her wishes for granted. She probably wasn’t even expecting to ask him after—after what he’d seen the other day. None of them would’ve known.

Nonetheless, it’s thrown him in right for a loop.

Aziraphale doesn’t even know if he lives in London, or if he’s even _still_ in London. He most certainly looked at home, and he does not recognize the guy he was with from Tadfield but, who knows? He wouldn’t know that. Twenty years away makes him an outsider.

He’s been an outsider since the moment he left.

A very significant factor that points to how going back is the _most insanely cocked-up pile of bolloc_ —absurd. It’s absurd! A bad idea. The _worst_ idea.

But it’s for Tracy.

(And himself, he'd said. Oh God what on earth was he _thinking_?)

A knock at the doors snaps Aziraphale out of his spiral(and very nearly sends his mug flying, again), which is strange, because he’s sure he’d already flipped the sign to closed, and both Anathema and Newt aren’t closing until after dinner. Unless, of course, if it’s an emergency (which because of Newt is a constant occurrence). He doesn’t understand why they don’t just phone him to come to the cafe a few blocks down then. It’s why he got the blasted thing in the first place.

The knocking doesn’t stop. At this point Anathema would be calling him out for being in because the lights are on, so it can’t be her. He moves around the counter and stalks up to the doors, not finding the strength to smile very wide like he usually does as he pushes the lock and cracks them open.

“I’m afraid we’re quite _definitely_ closed.”

Aziraphale looks up, and feels his smile freeze in his face.

Red hair. _Amber_ eyes, hidden behind sunglasses.

But he sees it. A shocked, then cool gaze.

_Look how you fucked up._

“Aziraphale.”

Twenty years. And the sound of his name on his lips still makes his heart drop to his stomach.

_“It won’t rain forever.”_

Of course such a memory would turn up now, because it’s only then that he notices the sound of the rain pounding against the rooftop—matching the backdrop of the man standing before him and his still breaths and the quiet life he’s made for himself.

Aziraphale swallows down the lump rapidly building in his throat, shielding it by raising a hand he wills very hard not to shake and take off his reading glasses. He smiles, as genuinely as he can muster, hoping it holds the rest of him together.

“Hello, Crowley.”

**Author's Note:**

> Longer chapters from here on out! First GO fanfic, would like to hear what you guys think of it so far :)


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